


on his mouth like liquor

by chrysanthemumsies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, First Kiss, Fluff, Gay Bar, M/M, Romance, Series 3, Stag Night
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-17
Updated: 2016-11-17
Packaged: 2018-08-31 11:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8577652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthemumsies/pseuds/chrysanthemumsies
Summary: The gay bar scene from Stag night that the creators didn't want to show! Pure crack with a bit of angst and a whole lotta fluff (if you squint). Sherlock and John on the dance floor - what's not to love?Title creds to Partition by Beyonce, which coincidentally is terrific background music while reading the dancing bit! ;)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Just a cute lil fic to keep me going. Visit my tumblr [@chrysanthemumsies](http://chrysanthemumsies.tumblr.com/) if you have any questions/want another Johnlock blog to follow! ALSO I'll go ahead and plug my big fic here: [Journey through the Improbable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8120431/chapters/18614623). If you like science fiction AUs, space exploration, time travel, and badly-explained astrophysics (and most of all Johnlock :D), then this fic is for you!

“Sherlock, I _*hick*_ don’t think I should drink anymore. Ever.” 

Sherlock fell into the cab more than he entered it, feet twisting as he maneuvered uncoordinated legs into the car. It took him a few tries to close the door. “Nonesome-sense, nonsense, John,” he barked, voice higher than usual and hilariously slurred. “This is what your ‘Stag Night’ is for, hmm?”

John was definitely getting too old for this, he reckoned. Once upon a time, alcohol made him giggly and energized and full of bad ideas. Now it just made him nauseous and tired. “Let’s just go home, yeah?” 

The fact that he said ‘home’ rather than 221B did not go unnoticed by Sherlock, but he was hardly going to bring it up. “I’ve one more place to go,” he managed, struggling to straighten his legs. “Last one. Scott’s honor.” Sherlock’s brow furrowed and he braced a hand on the seat behind him, leaning unsteadily towards John like the fate of the world depended on the answer to his question. “Who’s Scott?” 

John giggled. The cabbie gave a loud sigh. “I’m going to need an address soon, boys.” 

“Ah!” Sherlock announced. He nearly smushed his face against the glass separating them from the driver. “D’you know where the Buck & Bare Wild is?” 

The cabbie smirked. “Do I know...” he muttered, pulling out into traffic. John was barely able to process the name.

“Buck & Bear?” He asked slowly, blinking away the fog. “What’s that? Some sort of hunting-themed thing?” 

Sherlock ignored most of what he said, rocking back into his seat. “Can’t have a ‘Stag Night’ without a ‘Buck’, can you?” He mused, more to himself than anything.

John giggled again, louder this time. Sherlock added that to the mental tally of times he’s made John laugh since he’d came back. The list was far too small.

After both Sherlock and John managed to exit the cab without injuring themselves (though John had hit his shin somehow on the curb and Sherlock was rubbing at his funny bone), both men stared up at the neon-bright building they were standing before. 

“That’s a rainbow,” John said dumbly. 

“It _is_ a gay bar,” Sherlock pointed out, tilting his head 45 degrees and struggling to keep his body from tilting along with it. There was a subtle shape of a penis in the typography. “The rainbow is obvious, then.” 

There was pulsating music coming from inside. “Seems more like a gay club to me,” John said with uncertainty.

“Last bar,” Sherlock reminded. 

After a long look to the mural of a half-naked man on the adjacent wall, John gave a nod. It must still be early; there was no line, but a steady number of people entering and exiting. John shrugged out of his jacket and pushed it to Sherlock’s chest. 

Sherlock couldn’t help stumbling back at the force. “What’s this for?” He asked with an affronted look.

John gave him a crooked smile, the first _real_ one in weeks and so painfully familiar that Sherlock felt his heart nearly stop beating. “You can’t take me to a gay club and not expect me to dance,” he said innocently. 

Scratch that. Sherlock’s heart must be twice its normal speed at this point. With a gulp (and much internal cursing and praising towards the invention of alcohol), he followed John into the bar. 

Twenty minutes later and jackets divested somewhere up front (Sherlock vaguely remembered a coatroom, but he couldn’t be too sure), both men were toasting a dangerously pink beverage from their graduated cylinders. John swallowed it down with a grimace. Sherlock rather liked the taste. 

“Fruity,” John complained, though he went back to drink the remaining few drops like Sherlock had instructed all those bars ago. Sherlock was frankly mesmerized by the line of John’s throat as he swallowed. He pulled out his phone to type in the data, but realized it was dead. With a purse of his lips, he stuffed the information halfheartedly into his Mind Palace to log in later. 

“Do you want to go home now?” Sherlock asked over the rising music. John, eyes bright, vehemently shook his head. 

“Now?” He shouted back. “No! Let’s get in a few dances first.” 

John was already fading into the crowd, and with a start Sherlock watched hands already reach out to grope. John didn’t seem to notice, let alone mind. Torn between staying out of sweaty, sticky bodies and becoming well-acquainted with them, Sherlock reluctantly had to choose the latter when he watched John grope someone back.

Oh, dear lord. _He’s straight, he’s straight,_ Sherlock had to repeat in his head like a mantra. _Definitely, inconceivably, repeatedly and one-hundred-percent-_

John, grinding against a leather-clad arse. 

Sherlock practically ran over the scantily dressed men on the dance floor, nearly suffocating in glitter as he tried to reach his friend. His John, who was currently laughing at something another man was saying into his ear. Sherlock hesitated before them. 

“Sherlock!” John yelled, eyes pleasantly dazed. He batted away the man behind him, stepping much too close towards Sherlock. “Have you ever been to a gay bar before?” 

Hands were behind him, untucking his white button-up. He missed the protection his Belstaff brought him. “Not since uni,” he confessed over the music. 

Something flashed in John’s eyes, and he tugged Sherlock forward by his wrist until they were flush. “Do you remember how to dance in one?” John asked, the bridge of his nose knocking at Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock could only shake his head, not sure if he could trust his words. 

With a grin, the next song came on and John whipped around so his back was to Sherlock’s chest. The men around them seemed to know the lyrics to the song that was currently blaring. With a sense of equal parts horror and fascination, Sherlock realized that John was beginning to slowly grind. 

Hands. Hands everywhere. Heat. Lights and colors flashing, voices and music blasting Sherlock’s ear drums. And most of all John, hips dictating the rhythm Sherlock followed. Arse against groin, shoulder blades knocking against a chest, sandy blond scalp drenched into brunette propped on a shoulder. John reached behind him to grab Sherlock’s hands, placing them firmly on his hips. 

“Relax,” Sherlock felt John say through their bodies, more than he heard. 

Easy for John to say. He wasn’t currently reciting the countries of the world in alphabetical order in a useless attempt to control a quickly hardening erection. “How are you-” Sherlock tried to helplessly ask, only having to choke off his words with a desperate sound when John tilted his head even more to nibble at his jaw. 

“I experimented a bit in uni,” John confessed, breath hot against Sherlock’s neck. “We’re having fun, yeah? Just fun.” 

Sherlock’s hands were currently beneath John’s shirt, gripping his skin. Was this classified as fun? Sherlock wasn’t exactly an ambassador of the art. But, as the alcohol cleared way to something more daring and, well, stupid, Sherlock realized that this game that they were playing? Two could play at it. 

Sherlock completely released John, stumbling a step back. When John turned around in confusion, Sherlock pounced. 

Groin against groin was the _much_ preferable combination, Sherlock thought. With a sense of bravery that Sherlock didn’t know he had, he inched his hands down to John’s arse to grip and sway, taking control. Sweat was plastering his shirt uncomfortably to his skin and making his curls damp, but it was worth it to hear John’s groan. 

“Just fun?” Sherlock asked, not able to resist a taste below the hollow of John’s ear. John’s hands scrabbled along his spine beneath his shirt, nails skittering along the sweat-soaked skin with an electrifying pleasure. 

“Just...” John slurred, eyes more black than blue and level with Sherlock’s mouth. He was licking his lips. 

Sherlock had rendered him speechless. There should be a medal for that, somewhere. Had Mary ever rendered him speechless? At that thought, Sherlock sobered and realized what exactly was happening. It was his _friends_ Stag night, they were completely inebriated, and-

With horror, Sherlock realized that they were drunk. He was taking advantage of John’s state for his own irrelevant wants. As if burnt, Sherlock pushed away all at once. 

John staggered, but recovered quickly. “Sherlock?” He asked, hair mussed and expression the epitome of concern. 

Sherlock shook his head, knowing his eyes were far too wide. “You’re...” With a distressed sound he gripped John’s biceps, hoping his words hit. “You’re drunk. And you’re getting married.” 

John seemed to sober, but resolve pushed passed the blur. He pushed forward, shaking off Sherlock’s grip and gripping his hands back on his waist. “You’re drunk too,” he accused. “This is just... It’s fun.” 

But Sherlock was averting his eyes, desperately trying to look anywhere other than in the face of the man he... he... 

“It’s not fun for me,” Sherlock admitted quietly. He didn’t think John could hear him, but he could, apparently. 

“Sherlock...” he began, for what it’s worth seeming defeated. But there was fire in his eyes. “Do you... Are you...” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, fighting the nausea. “Yes.” 

A pause, and then John was pushing him out of the crowd, guiding Sherlock around tables and chairs and people until he hit a wall. It was dark away from the dance floor, and surprisingly empty, relatively speaking. John’s hands were creeping up to his neck. 

“Sherlock...” he repeated, though this time it held both heat and warmth. The warmth from his eyes, inexplicably tender and nearly sad as they traced Sherlock’s features. The heat from his skin, hips still pressed together and tongue peeking out to wet his lips. 

“John,” Sherlock muttered helplessly, and then whatever string between them snapped and John was yanking Sherlock down, teeth knocking as their lips slotted together, slick and hot, hot, hotter than Sherlock would have thought possible. He let out an embarrassing sound, and his arms reached down to wind as tight as they would go around John’s waist. Air wasn’t important anymore, not if it meant parting from John’s lips. 

Eventually, though, it was between public sex or asphyxiating. John pulled away with a huff, something unlike anything Sherlock has seen before in his expression. Sherlock could feel both of their heartbeats in every inch of his body.

“Not fun,” John agreed eventually, pressing his thumb along the line of Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Boring. Very boring.” His lips quirked a tad. His hands dropped to Sherlock’s shoulders, and he closed his eyes as if the contact was grounding him.

“Home?” Sherlock asked, hopeful. 

John reached up on his tiptoes to knock their foreheads together. “Home,” he agreed. 


End file.
